GIFT  OF 
Class    of   1887 


POEMS 

OF 

Afolt; 


_mtm 

9 


19999999999999999999991. 


Poems  and  songs,  I  love  to  write, 
They  come  to  me  both  day  and  night; 
And  if -everyone  would  love  to  write  the 

same  as  /, 
They  would  want  to  keep  on  living  and 

never,  never  die. 

F.  E.  HEAD,  Author. 


F.  E.  HEAD,  Author 


POEM  Three 


The  Old  Home 


Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

TO  the  dear  old  home  of  my  boyhood  day : 

Many  hours  I  have  played  in  the  meadows  green, 

Gathering  flowers,  and  fishing  in  the  stream. 

You  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  water  mills, 

That  run  all  day  until  the  sun  set  below  the  western  hills. 

You  could  hear  the  song  of  birds  from  morning  until  night, 

Until  the  day  was  gone  and  there  was  no  light. 

At  the  farm  house  you  could  hear  the  dogs  bark, 
And  the  whipporwill  a  singing  after  dark. 
Now  those  large  forests  are  all  cut  away, 
And  there  is  no  place  for  the  wild  deer  to  stay. 
My  dear  old  mother  and  father  have  gone  to  rest, 
Oh,  they  were  the  ones  that  I  loved  best. 

My  sisters  and  brothers  are  gone  from  that  cabin  door, 

And  it  is  very  seldom  that  I  see  them  any  more. 

Those  were  the  happiest  days  of  all 

At  the  dear  old  home  where  the  trees  were  so  tall. 

There  are  many  things  that  I  could  tell 

Of  that  dear  old  home  that  I  loved  so  well. 


Four 


POEM 


POEM  Five 


Springtime 

Spring,  Spring,  the  beautiful  Spring', 

AYhen  it  comes  we  hear  the  birds  sing : 

Everyone  seems  so  cheerful  and  gay, 

For  the  long  Winter  months  have  faded  away. 

It  is  so  nice  to  see  the  grass  so  green, 

And  the  people  fishing  along  the  little  stream. 

The  wild  flowers  are  all  in  blow, 

How  much  nicer  they  look  than  the  white  snow. 

The  children  gather  them  as  through  the  fields  they  run, 

For  the  Spring  is  here  and  the  nice  warm  sun. 

The  little  bee  lights  on  a  flower  and  then  flies  away, 

It  is  gathering  honey  for  a  rainy  day. 

The  butterfly,  with  its  golden  wings, 

On  the  trees  and  bushes  light, 

First  on  one  and  then  another  and  soon  is  out  of  sight. 

The  warm  sunny  days  glide  along  so  fast, 

It  does  not  seem  long  and  the  Summer  is  past. 


Six  POEM 


Greed  for  Gold 


While  on  earth  he  toiled  and  hoarded 
Every  cent  that  he  could  make ; 
'Had  no  time  for  earthly  pleasures 
Or  a  day's  vacation  take. 
Had  no  eyes  for  Nature's  beauty 
And  the  things  that  God  had  wrought, 
Only  thought  with  greed  and  yearning 
Of  the  things  that  money  bought. 

Money,  money,  yellow  gold, 
He  had  wealth  a  thousand  fold ; 
He  had  bonds,  and  farms,  and  houses, 
Wrung- from  others  to  be  sold. 
But  to  this  man  with  all  his  riches 
Came  a  day  with  blackest  night, 
When  he  found,  despite  his  gainings 
That  his  eyes  had  lost  their  sight. 

Did  he  turn  then  to  God  who  gave  him 
This  great  gift  he  had  enjoyed; 
Did  he  after  this  affliction 
Seek  out  those  he  had  employed. 
Did  he  right  his  wrongs  to  others 
While  his  life  to  him  was  spared  ? 
He  had  wealth  enough  and  plenty 
That  he  could  with  others  shared. 

Then  to  him  as  to  all  o-thers 
Came  the  summons  from  on  high 
The  grim  Reaper  called  upon  him 
To  lay  down  his  wealth  and  die. 
To  the  land  where  he  was  going 
All  his  gold  would  count  for  naught, 
Well  for  him  had  he  but  heeded 
The  blest  things  his  bible  taught. 


POEM  Seven 

Nature 

Open  vour  eyes  and  see  the  beauty 


Of  the. skies,  the  grass,  the  trees, 
Listen  to  the  birds'  sweet  music 
And  the  murmur  of  the  breeze. 
List  to  the  brook's  wild  cadence 
As  it  seeks  the  water  fall, 
Awake  to  Nature's  beauty 
That  surrounds  us  one  and  all. 

Leave  cLull  care  and  daily  worries 
Let  them  fare  as  how  they  will, 
.  While  you  take  a  little  ramble 


O'er  the  grassy,  rolling  hill. 


Let  your  eyes  search  out  the  beauties 
Spread  by  Nature  all  around, 
From  the  blue  arched  sky  above  you 
To  the  flower  studded  ground. 

Every  sound  is  one  of  sweetness 

To  a  Nature  loving  heart, 

Every  insect,  stone,  and  grass  blade 

Of  the  Universe  a  part. 

Watch  the  little  bird  that  soars, 

High  into  the  heaven's  blue, 

How  he  sings  while  upwards  flitting 

On  his  tiny  wings  so  true. 

Hear  the  bumble  bee's  dull  humming 
As  it  lumbers  o'er  the  flowers, 
See  the  oriole  a  swinging, 
In  its  tree  before  a  shower. 
Listen  to  the  wind's  low  murmur 
As  it  sighs  among  the  trees, 
Listen  to  the  gentle  rustle 
As  it  stirs  a  million  leaves. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  Nature 
In  sunshine  and  in  storm, 
Wish  not  for  sunny  weather 
When  the  rain  comes  softly  down. 
For  though  you  love  the  sunshine, 
We  also  need  the  rain, 
And  as  Summer  follows  Springtime, 
So  the  sun  will  shine  again. 


Eight  POEM 


His  Last  Message 

O,  just  a  moment,  dear  brother 
Will  you  take  a  message  from  me? 
Take  it  to  my  dear  mother 
Far  across  the  deep  Blue  Sea ; 
Tell  her  "that  I  fought  bravely 
As  long  as  I  could  stand, 
But  when  a  bullet  pierced  my  side 
I  knew  then  I  was  going, 
To  that  happy  land." 

Tell  my  mother,  when  you  see  her, 

Oh,  tell  her  "not  to  weep," 

For  my  troubles  will  soon  be  over 

And  I  will  go  to  that  everlasting  sleep. 

When  last  we  parted,  she  kissed  me  goodbye 

And  said  "my  boy,  this  will  be  the  last  time 

We  will  be  together,  you  and  I. 

Tell  her  "to  keep  this  message 

And  not  throw  it  away," 

It  is  the  last  one  she  will  get  from  me 

For  I  have  gone  to  stay. 

So,  fare  you  well  dear  mother, 

I  will  never  be  again  by  your  side, 

For  I  will  be  laid  away  across  the  sea  so  wide. 

And  now,  my  dear  brother,  to  you  I'll  say  goodbye, 

Hoping  you  will  not  follow  the  same  as  I. 


POEM  Nine 


My  Father's  Boyhood  Days 

Back  to  my  old  home  where  I  first  saw  the  light. 

Through  the  summer  you  could  hear  the  song  of  birds 

And  the  whippoorwill  at  night. 

Far  off  in  the  woods  you  could  hear  the  cow  bell, 

And  back  of  the  house  was  the  old  stone  well. 

At  night  you  could  hear  the  screech  owls  hoot, 

And  many  wild  deers  we  would  shoot. 

. 

The  rattler  and  blue  racers  crawling  on  the  ground, 
You  would  see  them  in  the  woods  and  see  them  all  around. 
Day  after  day  through  the  woods  I  would  roam, 
A-hunting  and  a-fishing  far  away  from  our  home. 
Wild  ducks  and  geese  would  fry  over  in  big  flocks, 
There  was  plenty  of  game — partridges  and  woodcocks. 
Many  of  wolves  and  bears  you  would  see, 
And  panthers  alaying  up  in  a  crotch  of  a  tree, 

Along  the  streams  the  kingfishers  built  their  nests  in  the  sand, 

And  you  could  see  the  beavers  building  their  dam. 

All  kinds  of  wild  berries  on  bushes  and  tree, 

And  pretty  wild  flowers  were  as  thick  as  could  be. 

For  miles  we  would  go  along  the  Indian  trail, 

To  trade  our  furs  and  get  our  mail. 

Those  days  were  happy  ones  and  pleasant  to  me, 

For  I  was  raised  in  the  forest,  you  see. 


Ten 


POEM 


POEM  Eleven 


My  Mother 

In  her  armchair  slowly  fading 
As  the  days  so  swiftly  fly, 
Sits  my  own  dear  old  mother 
With  the  reaper  hovering  nigh. 
I  can  see  that  she  is  failing 
As  she  sits  so  patiently, 
Listening  for  the  Angel  whisper 
And  I  hear  her  gently  sigh. 

Breaking  hearts  you'll  leave  behind  you 

That  will  grieve  forever  more, 

But  your  trials  wrill  all  be  over 

When  you  reach  that  glistening  shore. 

Your  working  days  are  over 

All  toil  and  worry  past, 

And  you  know  there's  one,  dear  Mother, 

That  will  love  you  till  the  last. 

There  is  in  my  heart  a  picture 
Of  your  face  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Not  of  twinkling  eyes  and  dimples 
But  of  silvery,  snow  white  hair  j 
Wrinkled  hands  so  calmly  folded 
Waiting  for  the  end  to  come, 
Knowing  that  your  days  are  numbered 
And  your  race  is  nearly  run. 


Twelve  POEM 


The  Old  Oak  Tree 

There  was  an  old  oak  that  stood  near  our  house  by  the  road 
For  years  it  stood  up  and  faced  the  hard  winds  and  held  up  its 

load. 

In  sunshine,  snow,  rain  and  all  kinds  of  storm, 
It  swayed  and  it  would  twist  but  it  kept  its  good  form. 
How  nice  it  was  for  travelers  to  stop  under  this  tree  and  rest 
And  the  birds  in  this  tree  would  build  their  nests. 
On  hot  Summer  days  people  would  stop  there  and  set 
To  cool  off  their  body  and  dry  up  their  sweat. 

My  mother  would  sit  there  with  me  when  she  was  quite  young, 

And  many  old  songs  that  she  sung. 

Those  songs  now  are  all  out  of  date, 

For  I  never  have  heard  any  of  them  of  late. 

The  blackbird  and  blue  jay  when  they  went  south, 

Would  light  and  rest  in  this  tree  on  their  way. 

It  was  a  great  place  for  cattle  to  stay 

And  in  under  the  shade  of  the  tree  they  would  lay. 

The  lovers  as  they  would  take  a  walk, 

Would  stop  under  this  tree  and  talk. 

They  are  the  ones  that  would  miss  it  the  most  of  all, 

For  many  girls  have  been  kissed  beneath  this  tree  so  tall. 

One  day  there  came  a  big  wind  and  blowed  the  tree  down. 

The  noble  old  tree  laid  its  length  on  the  ground. 

No  more  will  we  lay  in  your  shade  to  keep  off  the  heat, 

No  more  will  we  sit  on  the  grass  at  your  feet. 

Your  limbs  they  are  broken  and  your  body  is  split, 

And  no  more  in  your  shade  will  we  sit. 

The  people  will  long  for  your  shade  in  vain, 

Your  branches  will  never  shelter  us  again. 

Now  the  old  tree  is  gone,  and  it  soon  will  decay, 

But  we  will  not  forget  it  for  many  a  day. 


POEM  Thirteen 


Farewell  to  the  Farm 

My  working  days  are  through  and  over 

So  I  will  quit  the  fields  of  clover ; 

And  no  more  I  will  have  to  hire, 

For  I  will  leave  the  old  farm  and  retire. 

No  more  I  will  plough  the  fields  and  sow  the  seeds, 

Or  cultivate  the  ground  to  kill  the  weeds. 

No  more  will  I  work  in  the  hayfield 

For  that  is  not  so  soft, 

A-drawing  the  hay  and  putting  it  up  in  the  loft. 

No  more  will  I  milk  the  cows, 

In  the  morning  or  at  night. 

Or  run  all  over  the  country  after  them, 

When  they  are  out  of  sight. 

I  am  a-quitting  to  move  far  away, 

And  let  some  one  else  work  the  clay. 

The  auto  is  a- waiting  at  the  door, 

We  will  leave  the  old  farm  and  bid  it  farewell. 

The  place  where  for  so  many  years  we  did  dwell. 

We  are  leaving  the  meadow  and  the  long  lane, 

And  the  little  house  that  sheltered  us, 

From  the  snow  and  the  rain. 

The  old-fashioned  roses  are  all  in  blow, 

But  we  have  sold  the  old  home  and  we  must  go. 

And  all  our  friends  so  good  and  kind, 

We  are  going  away,  leaving  them  behind. 

So  I  bid  you  goodbye  old  house  and  barn, 

And  all  of  my  friends  and  the  dear  old  farm. 


Fourteen  POEM 


Reveries 

As  we  sit  by  the  fire-place 

On  the  old-time  worn  settee, 
And  hear  the  branches  creaking 

In  the  storm 's  wild  melody, 
How  our  thoughts  revert  to  childhood 

And  the  happy  days  gone  by 
As  we  watch  the  roasting  apples 

And  the  sparks  that  upward  fly. 

Outside  the  snow  is  falling 

And  the  swaying,  bending  trees, 
Wear  the  snow-white  cloak  of  Winter 

In  the  place  of  Spring's  green  leaves. 
Yet  we  heed  not  the  coldness 

Of  the  Winter's  chilling  blast 
As  we  conjure  up  a  vision 

Of  the  Summer  days  now  past. 

In  our  dreams  we  see  a  picture 

Of  a  deep,  dark,  wooded  dell; 
And  we  hear  the  far  off  tinkle 

Of  the  petted  leader's  bell. 
To  our  ears  there  comes  the  murmur 

Of  a  slowly  winding  brook 
Then  our  fancy  plans  a  picnic 

In  a  favored,  quiet  nook. 

Thus  our  truant  thoughts  will  wander 
•    From  the  present  to  the  past, 
Sighing  for  the  joys  of  Summer 

While  old  Winter 's  speeding  fast. 
Then  the  redly  glowing  embers 

And  the  whispering  of  the  pines, 
Lure  us  from  our  musings 

From  the  past  to  present  times. 


POEM  Fifteen 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Forest 

There  are  beautiful  flowers  in  tire  wild  wood, 

That  grow  along  with  the  grass  so  green ; 

You  hear  the  birds  a-singing 

In  the  trees  along  the  stream. 

Wild  berries  in  abundance  they  do  grow, 

Along  the  little  brook 

Where  the  foaming  waters  flow. 

The  blue  birds  and  the  thrush 

They  will  fly  from  brush  to  brush, 

¥*>u  can  hear  their  songs  all  day 

Until  the  sun  light  has  faded  all  away. 

We  will  see  the  hawk ;  he 's  a  bird  that  all  despise. 

He  is  always  watching  with  his  sharp  eyes. 

In  times  you  will  see  him  setting 

On  the  branch  of  some  dead  tree, 

He  will  sit  there  for  hours  through  the  day, 

Awaiting  and  a-watching  for  his  prey. 

The  woodpecker,  he  is  always  around 

And  very  easy  is  he  to  be  found. 

He  is  a  busy  bird  and  his  pecking  can  be  heard 

As  he  pecks  a  hole  in  a  tree, 

Until  he  is  out  of  sight,  you  see. 

The  mourning  dove  on  some  high  limb  will  sit 

We  can  hear  him  coo  and  we  are  bound  to  see  him  too. 

Then,  when  the  woods  are  dark  the  screech  owl  will  appear; 

And  when  you  hear  him  hoot  you  will  be  in  fear. 

The  wThip-poor-will  is  a  noisy  bird 

It  is  after  dark  when  he  is  heard. 

He  will  sing  all  night  with  great  delight. 

0,  how  cruel  it  is  to  kill  the  birds, 

I  love  to  hear  their  merry  songs, 

As  well  as  pleasant  words. 


Sixteen 


POEM 


POEM  Seventeen 


Night-time 

Softly  the  day  is  dying, 
And  darkness  gathers  'round, 
Covering  earth  with  its  mantle 
Coming  without  a  sound. 

In  the  blue  arched  dome  above  us, 
One  by  one  the  stars  peep  out; 
Birds  in  the  trees  are  sleeping, 
There  is  silence  all  about. 

Far  over  the  distant  river, 
Appears  a  silvery  space, 
A  gleaming  pathway  of  radiance 
As  the  moon  man  shows  his  face. 

Slowly  the  night  advances, 

Then  fades  into  the  dawn; 

We  wake  with  a  feeling  of  gladness, 

To  find  that  the  night  has  gone. 

Day  follows  close  on  its  footsteps, 
And  as  we  take  up  our  toil  once  more, 
Let  us  face  it  with  honest  endeavor 
Greater  than  ever  before. 


Eighteen  POEM 


The  Journey  of  Life 

As  you  wander  along  through  the  journey  of  life, 

With  all  of  your  troubles,  both  gladness  and  strife, 

It's  sunshine  and  storms,  snow,  hail  and  it's  rain, 

It  is  pleasure  and  sadness  and  all  kinds  of  pain. 

We  find  pleasure  and  happiness  that  comes  with  the  years, 

And  all  kinds  of  trouble  and  sadness  and  tears. 

For  this  world  is  wide  and  full  of  trouble, 

And  you  must  be  very  careful  or  you  will  make  it  double. 

You  must  be  careful  of  what  you  say, 

Or  you  will  be  in  trouble  every  day; 

But  we  will  always  try  to  be  happy  and  go  through  the 

world 

With  a  smile :  We  will  live  for  the  ones  that  love  us, 
For  the  ones  we  find  worth  while. 

We  will  live  for  the  ones  that  are  kind  and  true, 

For  those  that  have  proved  themselves  true  blue ; 

And  as  we  go  through  the  valley  of  life, 

The  good  we  will  defend. 

Finding  the  most  of  our  trouble  is  caused  by  ourselves, 

From  the  beginning  to  the  end. 


POEM  Nineteen 


The  Flowers" 


The  flowers  we  find  in  our  pathway, 

Have  a  duty,  every  one— 
As  they  open  their  bright  hued  petals, 

Each  morning  to  the  sun. 

They  teach  us  a  wonderful  story, 
They  fill  our  hearts  with  love ; 

They  help  us  to  be  ever  grateful, 
To  our  Heavenly  Father  above. 

If  we  but  look  around  us, 

On  the  beauty  that  is  ours, 
Our  lives  will  be  far  brighter, 

Than  the  rainbow  that  follows  showers. 

The  birds,  and  bees,  and  blossoms, 

The  mountains,  rivers,  and  plains, 

Are  all  the  work  of  the  Master, 

As  the  towns  are  the  children  of  brains. 

You  may  run  your  cars  and  factories 
And  do  a  great  many  things; 

But  you  can't  add  an  inch  to  your  stature. 
Or  stop  the  gentle  rains. 

Without  the  help  of  our  Maker, 

The  great  Omnipotant  One, 
We  are  helpless  as  new  born  infants, 

Like  mists  before  the  sun. 

Let  us  all  seek  for  wisdom 

And  do  our  very  best, 
To  make  this  good  world' -better, 

Before  we  are  called  to  rest. 


Twenty  POEM 


In  the  Jangle 

How  would  you  like  to  live  in  a  country, 

Where  you'd  hear  the  lions  roar? 

In  the  diamond  mines,  with  the  Natives  and  the  Boers, 

In  the  jungle  with  the  elephant  so  large  and  strong, 

And  the  birds  with  their  plumage  so  pretty  and  so  long. 

When  the  sun  is  shining  it  is  so  terrible  hot 

You  will  see  the  poisonous  insects  and  the  little  Hotentot. 

Large  serpents  a  hanging  from  the  trees, 

And  wild  monkeys  chattering  with  the  little  chimpanzees. 

In  the  waters  crocodiles,  five  and  ten  abreast,  some  in  single 

file. 
You  will  see  them  by  the  thousand  in  the  stream  we  call  the 

Nile. 
The  Natives  with  their  dark  faces,  with  spears  and  arrows  in 

their  hands 

Make  war  with  each  other  in  this  wild  African  land. 
And  when  you  hear  a  gorrilla  roar 
The  chills  will  go  through  you  by  the  score. 
You  will  think  the  sky  is  a  going  to  fall. 
The  trees  will  all  tremble  both  the  large  and  the  small. 

Were  you  ever  in  the  jungle  and  hear  a  lion  roar  ? 
The  first  time  that  you  heard  them  you  would  think, 
All  your  veins  had  bursted  or  your  heart  had  ripped  or  tore. 
You  can  travel  o'er  the  world,  in  all 'foreign  lands, 
But  when  your  in  the  jungle  you  have  something  on  your 
hands. 


POEM  Twenty-one 


Childhood's  Treasure 


You  ask  me  to  tell  you  a  story, 

At  this  glorious  time  of  the  year; 

To  tell  you  in  a  few  simple  phrases, 
What  is  to  the  children  most  dear. 

To  the  romping,  loving  school  boy, 
And  our  girls  so  sweet  alway, 

To  the  very  little  children 

Just  learning  how  to  play. 

Is  it  books,  balls,  sled,  skates,  or  mecanno, 
That  to  the  boy  gives  keenest  joy; 

What  is  it  that  holds  the  interest 
Of  our  manly  earnest  boy? 

Is  it  laces,  ribbons,  and  bon-bons ; 

Dolls,  danties,  or  chintzes  gay, 
That  fills  the  heart  of  our  maidens 

From  morn  till  close  of  day? 

What  is  it  that  pleases  baby 

From  dawn  till  setting  sun, 

That  beguiles  the  darling  cherub, 
And  turns  every  thing  into  fun? 

Now  listen  and  I  will  tell  you 

If  you  will  come  with  me, 
And  take  a  peep  at  the  circle 

Gathered  at  Mother's  knee. 

The  faces  of  happy  childhood 

Speak  a  language  you  can't  forget 
As  they  turn  their  eyes  towards  Mother, 

Who  has  never  failed  them  yet. 

Mother,  their  best  and  dearest, 

First  in  the  hearts  of  all; 
Is  acclaimed  the  choicest  treasure 

That  childhood  can  recall. 


Twenty  two  POEM 


Why  Should  We  Harry  the  Time  Away 

When  I  was  fifteen  I  wished  I  was  twenty-one. 

And,  oh,  how  fast  the  years  they  do  run. 

In  the  Winter  you  are  wishing  for  the  summer  to  come. 

And  when  it  is  here  you  are  not  just  satisfied, 

And  that  is  the  way  the  years  they  do  glide. 

We  are  always  hurrying  the  time  away, 

Wanting  the  time  to  go  fast  for  some  particular  day. 

Tuesday  or  Wednesday  you  wish  the  week  was  past 

So  that  you  would  get  your  little  money  on  the  last. 

Oh,  why  should  we  worry,  and  why  should  we  hurry  the  time 

away. 

For  as  long  as  we  have  got  to  live  it  is  a  short  time  to  stay. 
We  go  along  and  hurry  away  the  day. 
It  is  not  long  and  our  hair  is  sprinkled  with  gray. 
And  when  you  get  old  you  are  wishing  to  be  back 
To  the  days  when  you  were  young  and  gay. 
So  why  should  we  worry  the  time  away? 


POEM  Twenty-three 


Autumn 


The  frost-kissed  leaves  are  falling 
In  clouds  of  red  and  gold, 

The  sun  is  brightly  shining 
The  air  is  clear  and  cold. 

The  deep  and  silent  river 
Beneath  a  bright  blue  sky 

Takes  on  the  hue  of  Heaven 
Eight  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

The  orchards  and  the  vineyards 
Give  forth  a  fruity  smell, 

And  the  odor  of  the  pine  trees 
Seems  to  cast  on  me  a  spell. 

I  hear  the  small  boys  shouting 
As  they  whip  the  chestnut  trees, 

And  it  sounds  to  me  like  music 
As  it  floats  upon  the  breeze. 

The  furry  little  creatures 
Are  hurrying  here  and  there 

Hording  up  their  stores  for  Winter 
While  they  yet  can  seize  a  share. 

The  birds  are  chatting  gaily 
As  they  plan  to  southward  fly 

To  the  flower  laden  gardens 
Till  old  Winter  passes  by. 

The  ragged  white  clouds  floating 

Across  the  distant  sky 
Adds  beauty  to  the  picture 

Spread  out  before  the  eye. 

If  we  sum.  all  these  together 
Or  take  them  one  by  one, 

What  season  is  more  pleasant 
Than  the  frosty  bright  Autumn? 


Twenty-four  POEM 


My  Cottage  House 

There  is  a  little  old  cottage  that  sets  by  the  sea. 

Many  days  and  nights  it  has  sheltered  my  dear  wife  and  me. 

The  winds  they  would  blow  and  the  waves  would  roll  so  high, 

They  would  come  to  the  door  of  the  cottage 

That  sheltered  my  wife  and  I. 

I  loved  the  sea  and  loved  to  hear  it  roar, 

And  the  ivy  so  green  over  our  little  cottage  door. 

Oh,  IIOAV  many  happy  hours  we  have  spent, 

In  the  little  cottage  where  I  had  to  pay  no  rent. 

For  weeks  we  would  walk  along  the  sea  shore 

But  we  will  never  take  that  walk  any  more, 

For  my  dear  one  is  laid  in  her  grave  to  rest. 

Oh,  she  was  the  one  that  I  loved  best. 

She  has  gone  on  her  long  and  lonely  way 

But  I  think  of  her  in  my  travels  every  day. 

No  more  we  will  sit  in  that  cottage  and  talk, 

No  more  along  the  sea  shore  we  will  walk. 

So  I  will  have  to  travel  alone, 

For  my  dearest  has  left  my  little  cottage  home. 


P  OEM  Tven  ty-five 


A  Wayward  Son 


There  are  sad  hearts  grieving  at  the  dear  old  home 

And  the  ones  you  left  there  are  waiting  till  you  come. 

Mother  dear  is  waiting,  so  is  poor  old  Dad, 

How  those  hearts  are  aching  for  their  wayward  lad. 

Can  you  not  remember  how  you  promised  them 

You  would  make  a  fortune  and  return  again? 

When  the  birds  are  singing  and  the  sun  is  shining  bright, 

You  will  think  of  home  and  Mother  and  then  perhaps  you'll 

write. 

And  when  you  are  sleeping  they  to  you  in  dreams  will  come 
Often  to  remind  you  of  another  one. 

One  who  long  has  rested  neath  the  trysting  tree 

Who's  young  life  was  blighted,  who's  soul  longed  to  be  free. 

No  you  have  not  forgotten  the  promise  made  to  her 

When  you  searched  together  for  the  opening  chestnut  burr. 

Days  and  months  and  years  she  waited,  thinking  always  you'd 

return 
'Till  her  weary  heart  was  broken  and  her  soul  for  heaven 

yearned. 

Where  the  ivy's  creeping  o'er  the  garden  wall 
You  will  find  her  lying  neath  the  tree  so  tall. 
Then  lay  aside  your  pleasures  and  hasten  to  them  there, 
For  their  hearts  are  breaking  with  a  load  of  care. 

While  you've  been  wandering  in  those  lands  afar, 

They  have  still  been  waiting  with  the  gate  ajar. 

Bring  them  this  Thanksgiving  a  most  gladsome  joy 

Let  them  give  a  welcome  to  their  returned  boy. 

Then  Mother  Nature's  bounty  will  fairer  to  them  seem, 

When  the  dark  clouds  are  lifted  and  they  catch  the  silver 

gleam. 

To  them,  the  old  home 's  dearer  than  any  other  place, 
And  there's  not  a  sight  more  welcome  than  your  honest,  smil- 
ing face; 

And  when  their  lives  are  garnered  to  that  beautiful  home  above 
You  with  thoughts  most  tender  will  remember  those  you  love. 


Twenty -six  POEM 


Merry  Christmas 

Once  a  year  conies  Christmas, 

That  glorious  day  of  all  the  year, 

The  day  of  fun  and  frolic, 

Of  right,  good-will,  and  cheer. 

The  day  for  loving  and  giving, 

To  those  both  great  and  small, 

From  the  highest,  most  righteous  living 

To  the  poorest,  humblest  of  all. 

There  are  some  without  home  and  kindred; 

Tired,  forlorn,  and  alone, 

Would  be  glad  of  a  friendly  hand-clasp 

And  a  welcome  at  some  hearth  stone. 

It  might  be  the  breath  of  the  fir  tree 

Or  the  voices  of  childhood  gay 

That  would  give  them  the  needed  courage 

To  travel  life's  hard  pathway. 

Let  us  be  friendly  and  thoughtful, 

Courteous,  kind,  and  true; 

Always  remembering  the  stranger, 

'Tis  the  least  that  we  can  do. 

Ever  looking  around  us, 

To  see  if  such  there  be 

With  whom  we  can  share  our  gladness 

And  our  glorious  Christmas  tree. 


POEM  Twenty-seven 


A  Troublesome  Neighbor 

How  many  people  through  life  you  have  seen 

They  are  always  borrowing,  you  think  them  a  fiend. 

If  you  have  anything  better  they  will  ask  to  borrow, 

And  tell  you  they  will  bring  it  back  tomorrow; 

But  they  will  forget  and  then  come  for  more, 

There  are  a  hundred  different  things  that  brings  them  to  your 

door. 

They  will  borrow  this  and  they  will  borrow  that, 
They  will  ask  for  your  clothes  and  even  your  new  hat. 
When  it  rains,  your  umbrella  they  have  got, 
And  they  will  have  the  best  one  in  the  lot. 

They  want  the  washboard,  they  have  some  clothes  to  rub ; 

The  flat  irons,  your  boiler,  the  wash  line,  and  tub. 

She  was  at  the  store  but  was  just  too  late, 

So  she  has  to  have  bread  for  her  husband'  to  take. 

And  if  she's  refused  she  will  think  that  she's  abused. 

So  they  will  come  to  you  for  their  supply, 

And  when  you  want  yourself  you  will  have  to  buy. 

It  is  alright  to  borrow  but  not  every  day, 

And  always  be  prompt  and  ready  to  pay. 

And  let  me  add  this  word  of  advice, 

Do  not  borrow  so  much  for  it  is  not  nice. 

Whenever  you  want  sugar,  coffee,  pepper,  or  tea, 

Go  to  the  store  and  buy:    Then  you  will  see 

How  much  more  sociable  your  neighbors  will  be. 


Twenty-eight  POEM 


The  Old  Church  Bell 

Beautiful  in  the  sunset's  glory 
Shines  out  the  church  spire  tall, 

And  the  deep-toned  bell  within  it 
Sends  out  its  cheery  call. 

As  the  last  ray  of  sunlight 

Touches  the  far  hill's  crest 
It  gleams  athwart  the  belfry 

And  the  old  bell  now  at  rest. 

That  old  bell  so  well  remembered 

Many  varied  tales  has  told 
Of  new  years  young  and  rosy 

Of  old  years,  drear  and  cold. 

It  tells  of  merry  makings 

Of  funerals  and  weddings,  too, 

It  tells  anew  each  Easter 

Of  the  Savior  who  died  for  you. 

Some  times,  its  tones  they  are  solemn, 
Again  they  are  gay  and  loud; 

But  whenever  the  old  bell  starts  ringing 
There  is  sure  to  be  a  crowd. 

It  speaks  aloud,  "In  Memoriam" 
Of  the  men  in  blue  and  gray, 

And  of  our  brave  boys  in  khaki 
War  felled  so  far  away. 

It  rings  for  "Independence" 

As  the  Liberty  Bell  of  old 
It  flings  out  joyful  music 

To  freemen  strong  and  bold. 


POEM  Twenty -nine 


The  Old  Church  Bell  (CONTINUED) 

We  bow  our  heads  on  Thanksgiving 

To  its  old  familiar  call 
Our  grateful  hearts  overflowing 

With  love  for  the  giver  of  all. 

From  the  early  days  of  the  Pilgrims 

To  the  present  goodly  times, 
We  wait  for  the  voice  of  the  old  bell 

To  peal  forth  in  Thanksgiving  chimes. 

And  when  on  Christmas  morning 

All  the  bells  so  gladly  ring; 
We  see  in  our  minds  a  picture 

Of  a  manger  and  new-born  king. 

The  choir  sings  a  beautiful  anthem, 

And  then  the  old  bell  swings 
Its  silvery,  deep  tones,  telling 

Of  our  Savior,  Lord  and  King. 

From  our  hearts  on  the  eve  of  the  New  Year 
Comes  a  long  and  deep-drawn  sigh, 

For  we  know  when  the  bell  starts  ringing 
The  Old  Year  will  surely  die. 

A  year  full  of  hope  and  rejoicings 

Heartaches  and  sorrows,  too, 
Yet  we  know  it  fulfilled  its  promise 

Brought  when  the  year  was  new. 

Years  the  old  bell  has  hung  there, 

In  sunshine  and  in  storm 
Always  willing  and  ready 

Each  service  to  perform. 

Should  ever  it  hang  there  silent 
With  hushed  and  voiceless  tongue, 

'Twould  be  missed  alike  by  the  old  folks, 
And  the  happy,  careless  young. 


Thirty  POEM 


Circus  Days 

I  am  a  jolly  circus  girl  and  work  at  my  trade, 

I  have  traveled  more  than  twice  around  the  world. 

In  most  of  the  cities  I  have  been  in  the  parade, 

I  have  traveled  with  P.  T.  Barnum  and  Ringling  Brothers,  too. 

I  have  seen  some  pleasant  days  and  some  so  very  blue. 

I  have  medals  from  the  kings  and  queen, 

And  many  foreign  lands  I  have  seen. 

On  American  soil  I  have  traveled  the  most, 

Many  times  I  have  been  from  coast  to  coast. 

Under  the  big  canvas,  miles  I  have  rode  around  the  rings, 

I  can  tell  some  interesting  stories  and  very  funny  things. 

Many  would  make  you  laugh,  some  would  almost  make  you  cry, 

For  there  are  many  things  that  happen  to  us  as  the  years  go  by. 

How  proudly  I  listen  to  the  music  of  the  bands 
When  they  parade  through  the  cities  in  different  lands. 
Large  herd  of  elephants,  and  cages  standing  in  a  row, 
And  thousands  of  people  coming  in  to  see  the  show. 
I  can  see  my  circus  days  are  nearly  o  'er, 
Then  no  more  I  will  hear  the  old  lions  roar. 

Now  my  friends  and  acquaintances  know  what  I  have  done, 

I  have  rode  around  the  rings  and  the  clowns  have  made  the  fun. 

My  bright  sparkling  attire  I  will  soon  lay  away, 

I  will  be  very  lonesome  without  my  fine  dappled  gray. 

When  my  show  days  are  over  and  I  have  rode  my  last, 

I  will  bid  my  friends  goodbye  and  think  of  the  past. 


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